The Scar
by Comicker
Summary: Three years have passed since Ginny traveled back to 1946 and met a young Tom Riddle, working at Borgin and Burkes. She has tried everything to forget their past, but the connection refuses to sever, and no matter what she does - Ginny's scar will always burn. GinNTonic. A sequel to The Watch by Nesiy Lemon.
1. Chapter 1

The Scar

An inspired sequel to** The Watch** by Nesiy Lemon. 

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A/N: I have reached out to Nesiy in the hopes that she will let me continue this fanfic, inspired by her own story The Watch (which is perhaps one of my favourite Tom/Ginny fics to date). If she allows me to continue to write this, I hope that all of you can enjoy my perspective on what a sequel to this beloved, fantastic story may be. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!_  
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_And now for a look at the forecast: this rainy season is expected to continue well into May, with precipitation estimates between twenty and thirty centimetres each week. It doesn't look like we'll be "high and dry" of this until the Summer, folks._

The newscasters on the small tube radio continued to banter on, but she didn't care to make their voices out any longer. _Perfect_, thought Ginny, as she sipped her glass of Butterbeer. She loved the incessant rain. It meant cloudy days; those where she did not have to worry about looking up into an anvil of piercing blue. Whereas the constant drizzle seemed to depress most of London, the youngest Weasley was thankful for it. Her hazel eyes move to scan the patrons of the current dive she'd taken hospice in. It had been three years since she'd returned from 1946. Much had changed in her life since then. By and large, the hunt for the remaining Death Eaters had come to a close. Sure, there were some loose ends that still needed to sort out, but a majority of them had been captured. Ginny left the Order of the Phoenix shortly after her return, for a number of vastly complicated reasons. Most of them she couldn't quite explain to the others without opening a Pandora's box of terrible, gut-wrenching memories. She made it out as though she needed a new _direction_ in life, and many could not blame her; what with the loss of Fred and many of their friends, the endless days spent chasing after dark witches and wizards could have taken its toll on anyone. Ginny was relieved that this was the way her family saw it, and she was determined to keep it that way. She continued on as captain for the Hollyhead Harpies until her early retirement not one year prior. In fact, today marked that very anniversary. It was the reason she found herself drinking alone tonight in the Leaky Cauldron, tucked far away in a corner and huddled over the yellowed pages of an old Muggle book. But it wasn't to be for long, as she was expecting company.

The familiar jingle of the bar door sounded, accompanied by a wicked slosh of sideways rain. A hooded figure slipped in from the cold, soaked to the bone. Ginny raised her eyes only briefly from her pages to see their hood fall back. A wild array of black hair emerged, and Harry Potter reached up to adjust his fogged glasses. She raised a hand in the air to catch his attention, and Harry's fingers moved from his spectacles.

"'Oy Arry, what'll it be?" Tom called out to Harry from behind the bar.

"Nothing quite yet, Tom." He replied, giving Tom a polite nod. "I'll catch up with Ginny first."

"Aye, I'll come 'round in a bit then."

Ginny pretended to be roped back into her pages, but all she could focus on was the sound of Harry's wet footsteps as they moved across the old floor and the hard hammer of her heart in reply. Absentmindedly, she adjusted the small silk scarf wrapped around her neck; her scar was starting to itch. Eventually the partner chair in front of her groaned, as Harry pulled it out and slipped off his wet cloak to hang beside them.

"Some retirement party then," Harry said. "Thought Ron and Hermoine would be here by now."

"They couldn't make it," Ginny hesitantly closed the cover of her book, but not before earmarking her page. "It'll be just you and me."

"It's been a while since it's been just us." He finally sat down, and she had no other choice but to meet his eyes. "How've you been, Ginny?"

"Fine, fine." She shrugged. "I've been off visiting Mum a lot more lately, Phlegm hasn't the faintest clue how to do the most basic of things as a new Mom, and she's been driving the entire house mental with her overly dramatic antics. You know how she is."

"How's Bill fairing?"

"He's a great Dad, honest. Though he's been kept busy with work, the Triwizard Tournament coming up and all."

"Ah, I'd nearly forgotten."

A palpable silence fell between them then, as both of them looked for any excuse not to meet each other's eyes. It had been close to a year itself since she'd last seen Harry. He was starting to grey a bit, especially in the stubble under his neck. There was a pointed exhaustion in his features, one that was the result of long hours behind a desk, no doubt. The excitable days of the Auror office had dulled. He still carried the same presence with him, even if he did look tired - calm, quiet, compassionate - and Ginny could tell that he was looking to dive into their conversation gently, as if he had something important to tell her but couldn't quite find the words. Her gaze eventually caught his own.

"Are you happy?" His voice was only higher than a whisper. "I worry about you, Ginny. I... I wish you could've let me convince you to stay with me, even if... even if we..."

"Weren't in love any longer?" Ginny shook her head, and reached over the table to touch Harry's hand. "Oh, Harry. How could I have made you, or me, suffer like that? Besides, that was ages ago. We've got on as friends ever since, and things have been just fine. It wouldn't have been a good idea."

She knew, just as well as Harry did, that they still shared an unspoken love for one another. It had effectively been Ginny to sever their bond permanently, even if they'd been broken up at the time. Back then, and even now, she carried such a deep regret that it was almost necessary to make it clear to him; there was no way she could ever kiss him, or hold him, or share his bed again. There was just no coming back from what she had done, even if it only existed as a momentary blip of time in this universe. She would not share her nightmare with Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived while she felt as thought she'd long since died.

"About that..." Harry paused, but moved a finger to touch her hand. "I've... started to see someone."

"...Oh," Ginny breathed.

"Listen, I wanted to tell you before Ron had the chance - "

"Oh _Harry,_ that is wonderful news!"

" - and it's not like it's anything serious right now - "

"Oh, for_ goodness sake_, Harry. Quit talking so fast." Ginny employed the best smile she could muster, despite the sinking of her heart that she had no right to feel. She refused to well up. Instead, she took his hand tighter in her own and gave him a fierce nod.

"Truly, Harry, I'm thrilled for you. It's about time you spent some time out of that office."

"Right?" Harry's mild panic faded, and he returned her smile with one of his own. A true Harry Potter smile was, perhaps, far more damning than an Unforgivable Curse. It caught her off guard, and her breath hitched quietly. "You may remember her... Romilda Vane?"

To this, Ginny could not help but snort.

"You mean the **very same** Romilda Vane who tried to smuggle you a love potion in your sixth year? How did this happen?"

"That was a long time ago! We work together in the Auror's office now and we just sort of hit it off one night down at the Three Broomsticks - what?!" Harry mused, unable to control his own smirk at Ginny's reaction. "What? Seriously! She has changed! We all do idiotic things when we're younger, don't we?"

It had been a long time since she'd seen Harry so animated, and Ginny had mixed emotions. On one hand, she was so pleased that he was finally able to carve out a little happiness for himself. He had gone through far more in his lifetime than many witches and wizards do over several, and he deserved to enjoy his life. On the other hand, she couldn't deny the tightness in her chest; the realization that her decision had been finite and it was truly over. She and Harry would never again be what they once were. The cold rain continued to batter the small windows of the Leaky Cauldron well into the night. They shared a drink or two together and reminisced about old times, discussed Quidditch and topics about their friends, until the witching hour had long since passed and the bar was beginning to empty out. She was glad Harry had come, and thankful to have been able to spend time alone with him once again.

"Where are you staying right now, at the Burrow?" Harry asked.

"No, I've taken up a room here for a couple of weeks." Ginny said as she walked him to the front door of the bar. "I'll probably make my way to visit Neville and Luna in a month, then head out West." She didn't like the quizzical look on Harry's face, even as she helped him shrug back into his evening cloak.

They stepped away from the door, and Harry moved a hand to grasp her arm.

"...What happened to you, Ginny?" It would be about the hundredth time Harry had asked her that question since 1999. It seemed that for some reason, he sensed something was off with her more than anyone else did. As if to read her mind, he continued. "You know, you haven't been the same since that mission for the Order… the one with Kevedo. Every time I ask you about it, you find a way to deflect me. Now you're just travelling around all the time. Everyone misses you." He forced her to look into his eyes, his own narrowed in a desperate attempt to search her features for a sign, something, anything resembling an open door. "Even if you don't want to stay at the Burrow, you could always use Grimmauld Place. I have no plans for it yet. I just - I just wish you'd let me help you."

Ginny drew in a shaky breath.

"Does your scar hurt anymore, Harry?" She asked, her voice quiet.

"...No, why?"

A bitter smile twitched at the corners of her mouth, and her neck burned.

"Mine does."

"What? What scar - "

"I'll be fine, Harry. Go on and get yourself home now." 

* * *

Ginny hardly slept, even on the best of days. It was no surprise then, after Harry retreated into the night, that she could not find peace in her rented room. She mulled about the creaking floor for some time, and paced to try and erase the uneasy thoughts that bubbled to the surface. Even though she had made it her mission to forget, _Tom_ always found a way to creep back into her thoughts, her being, everything. She wanted the reminders to stop, but she did herself no favours by staying here - in the very room that she'd rented back in 1946 - when she'd first gone back in time. Ginny wondered for some time what it was going to take to wipe him from her existence. Perhaps she ought to find herself in the middle of a Confundus Charm; or even better, she could take a page from Gilderoy Lockhart's book. That way she could be certain; no trace of Tom Marvolo Riddle could ever find her or touch her again. She mulled it over in her head as she moved back and forth, but eventually decided on a different course of action.

It had been a while since she'd been to Nocturne Alley. She had not set eyes on Borgin & Burkes since the day she returned from her mission. Perhaps it was as simple as what Elizabeth had sought out in Pride and Prejudice, the same Muggle book she'd read back in 1946: a need for closure. If she were to see the shop again, could she finally close the lid on what had been a tumultuous three years of remembering her biggest mistake? Of feeling her scar burn - the place where Tom had drawn blood and left his mark? Of his _kiss_? She didn't know what it would be like to revisit that place, nor did she particularly care that it may hurt her. It had to be the place where it all began. At this point, anything would help her to be rid of him.

Decided, Ginny threw on her evening cloak over her sweatshirt and jeans, and tied the strings together. The bar was quiet and empty down below as she waded through the hall and down the old stairs. Only the faint glow of candlelight lead her to the main fireplace, where a small cauldron of Floo Powder hung to the right. She had to be barking mad to think this was a good idea. It was incredibly late, which meant that she would have to be extra careful and quiet if she was really going to go from the _inside._ Ginny didn't think that viewing the shop from the outside would help her with anything; not when Tom Riddle's ensnarement of her began with a handsome face behind a piping hot mug of tea, juxtaposed by ancient artefacts.

She paused, her fingers buried deep in Floo Powder, while she stood motionless in the hearth. It had been a long time since she'd recounted his face.

_Tom._

Why couldn't she kill him when he'd murdered Hepzibah? _Why?_

"Borgin and Burkes," Ginny whispered, and a cascade of bright green fire engulfed her figure.

It was dark. So dark, in fact, that Ginny couldn't help but think she must've mispronounced the name and ended up somewhere unknown. A sense of dread washed over her, as she scrambled to reach for her wand in her back pocket. "_Lumos_," she whispered. A faint blue light lit up the tip of her wand, and she extended it before her. Relief, but not elation, came as she found herself standing in a familiar kitchen. Nothing had changed, save perhaps the table and chairs; it was just as she'd left it back in 1946. There was a significant mess compared to how it was kept back then. Cups and dishes were strewn without discretion over the various countertops, and there was a faint scent of mold. Careful and quiet with each step, Ginny controlled her breathing while she moved. Her movements in this space were practiced, almost ritual. She circled round the table and towards the old, wooden stairs. They had aged significantly. Worried that she may announce her presence inadvertently to those sleeping inside, she mumbled a soft Muffliato charm, and took the first step toward the attic.

The place she'd shared with_ him._

"_Ginevra."_

The fear she thought would never come seemed to grip her with such an intensity that, in that moment, she was petrified. She knew he was not up there as she'd left him; she understood that Harry had killed Lord Voldemort many years ago, and now, she was chasing a ghost from a different time. A young, handsome Tom Riddle who had not yet descended into madness. A ghost she never should have experienced. Was it truly her goal to find closure - to make herself feel better, or more alive? Ginny could not say. She was _afraid _to face that same space again, terrified to recount the look in his eyes as he cursed her again, and again, and again. Unwilling tears pricked at her eyelids, and Ginny moved to steady herself on the railing.

There had been a time, however shameful as it was, that she had truly lusted for Tom. They had effectively become unwitting friends, then lovers, then nothing at all. Although she understood his darkness as predetermined and unyielding, she had once actually wanted to be the reason that he abandoned his dark ways. _Why was that? _Was it because of his smile, the way he offered her quiet comfort, or perhaps the way he sought her out with such desire? Or had she... developed real feelings for Tom, the _Tom _back then? She had always disregarded these thoughts as lunacy and suppressed all the memories of her tryst with the Dark Lord in order to stay sane in her own reality. It was only now that she began to ruminate over these thoughts, back in the place where it all began, that her mind raced.

Why was it that they shared such a connection - even after all this time?

Bravely, she took a step up and the misshapen scar on her neck seared. Ginny winced. Each step brought her closer to the door; the one they'd once kissed fervently upon, the very one he'd stumbled in drunk from a night out with pre-Death Eaters and she'd watched, amused, as he acted like a normal young adult would. The shadows under Ginny's eyes were illuminated as she ascended each step. Eventually when she reached the threshold, her hand lingered over the doorknob. She had half a mind to turn around and flee from this idiotic idea. After all, who knew if someone new had taken residence in the attic? She didn't feel like she was in her right mind. Harry's announcement had sent her spiraling. That was the only logical explanation. Even though the time between 1946 and present day was so distant, an unspoken electricity pulled at her soul. It was though they'd been here just yesterday. There was an inherent fear - despite her ability to be rational - which told her that he would be there, waiting for her, behind the door.

_He's long gone._

Ginny's fingers turned on the cold brass, and the door opened. She peered inside quite carefully with her wand at the ready, only to find that the space which had once been a temporary domicile was now nothing but a storage area. Long gone were the days that Borgin & Burkes had enough of a reputable reputation to offer housing to employees, let alone have one in their employ that was not family. Besides, she always assumed Tom had been an exception from their regular practices. Ginny took a careful step inside, and reached up her right hand to toss back her hood.

Dusty boxes of books and scrolls were stacked to the ceiling, and large artefacts haphazardly covered in clothes stuck out between them. Old or useless relics had been long forgotten. The air was stale and tepid. Some boxes were askew, rifled through and left tipped over. Ginny carefully weaved her way through the chaos, her eyes scanning the room as she moved. She could make out the legs of the couch she'd slept on underneath the mess, and above, the rod where the curtain had once hung to separate their space. It had long since been removed, but the old rings that kept it in place still sat along the rails. Her eyes followed the familiar path that lead down towards Tom's area. To her surprise, his desk sat undisturbed by rubbage. There was a fine layer of dust that covered most of the contents. A shammy cloth was hung over a large object, which she knew to have once been his cauldron and flasks. Her heart hammered in her chest as she drew closer, and raised her wand over the surface of the old oak.

_Tergeo_, Ginny whispered - a dusting spell she'd learned from her Mum - and suddenly the desk was clear. She swallowed and moved her wand to glance over the books stacked neatly in the corner by his old lamp. When she'd left this place for the last time, these books had been strewn all over the floor in Tom's Horcrux-induced madness. The War On Dissent. Advanced Vanishing Spells And How To Improve Them. There was even a copy of Hogwarts: A History by Bathilda Bagshot. They'd all been books she'd watched him read, their corners now bent and yellow with age.

And yet, most surprising of all, was that tucked underneath these stacks of thick texts was a slender book with a familiar lavender cover.

Ginny could hardly breathe as her trembling fingers reached out to pull the small spine from the pile. It had always felt like a dream, her journey back in time and her months spent with Tom and Abraxas and Borgin and Burkes. It never really felt like those days, which were a microscopic blip of time in this reality, could transcend history. She never would have known if Lord Voldemort remembered her in this time because he was long since dead. It seemed that her imprint on this life had been... inconsequential. If it hadn't been for that photograph she'd seen downstairs six years ago, there would've been nothing to tie her from there to here.

Except this. It was her copy of Pride and Prejudice.

It was still here.

Ginny stifled a sob, both out of fear and sheer anxiety. She raised a hand to cover her mouth with her wand, the other clutching the book tight in her fingers. She could remember lounging on the sofa, lazily skimming the words of Elizabeth's plight as Tom would lean over to swiftly kiss her forehead, it was never love - _**she had to remember that**_ \- it was never born of feelings - because Tom wasn't capable of love and she was not able to love him.

Her fingers move before she has time to stop herself, and she carefully opens the front cover. And, perhaps more startling than the fact that all of this was real and that her book was actually here, was a word scribed eloquently in ink on the blank of the front page. It was preserved under the jacket for almost eighty years.

The graceful slant of the G.

Tom's writing.

_Ginevra._

Instinct overcomes her shock and Ginny moves her hand from her mouth. Still racked with trembles, her fingers hesitate over the beautiful etch of her name, wandlight shuddering as her fingers quaked. _This wasn't here before_. She would've noticed it among the countless times she opened those pages. When did he write this? Did he write it after the New Years Eve party? Or maybe even after she'd left?

How long did he stay in this apartment, and why hadn't he thrown this away?

The second her finger presses to the ink, a shock so intense and jarring ricochets through every fibre of her being. It was just like the first time they touched, an instant connection forged through the diary of his Horcrux.

A faint glint of moonlight breaches through the small window.

Fifty-four years in the past, Lord Voldemort staggered to the ground. 

* * *

_"M-My Lord!"_

_"Are you all right, My Lord?"_

"_Someone check him! Goyle!"_

A roaring fire cracked from across the dining room of Malfoy Manor. Two cloaked figures rushed forward from a semicircle of many more towards the crumpled figure of their leader. They hesitated to get any closer to him, their faces flickering with anxiety in the firelight.

Tom drew in a hot, angry breath. His nostrils flared, while his fingernails scraped at the floor. _Impossible. _He would not look weak in front of his _friends. _The feeling had come so sharp and sudden, but it was not one he was unfamiliar with. It was infuriating to be embarrassed by such a weak, unprovoked bit of magic. Tom snarled and staggered to his feet. One of his _friends_ moved forward to offer their hand, but behind the sheath of his hood, Tom glared towards them.

"_Do not touch me._" He rose, and the useless muscle of his heart nearly palpitated. It had been three years since he'd experienced such a shockwave. Tom glared down at his right hand and flexed his pale fingers. They had just been in the middle of a discussion about the planned expedition to the Giants. The sensation was entirely unnecessary.

Tom had not thought of Ginevra in a long time, and good riddance.

"My Lord," Tom's head snapped to the right. Back-lit by the fire, Abraxas pulled his hood from his head and lay it gracefully along his back. It wasn't a knowing look, but the heir to the Malfoy legacy had shared far more… experiences with him than his other followers. He could almost see the hesitation in his face, even now, to not call him _Tom._ "Is there anything we can assist you with - anything at all? Or shall I continue the discussion - "

"It is not your _place_ to decide how we proceed, Abraxas." Tom hissed, and withdrew his own hood. A long mop of chestnut hair was tailored perfectly to his face. His skin was deathly pale and his fingernails much longer, but by and large, he continued to look like the same Tom Riddle that he'd once been. There was an emptiness in his eyes that could terrify some, but not Abraxas.

"Of course, My Lord."

Tom surveyed the room.

"Abraxas, you will continue to lead the discussion and give me the details at a later time. I have something to investigate." Without another word, Tom turned on his heel and swiftly made his way down the opposing corridor to the library. An anger boiled deep in his veins. How _dare_ this cursed, tainted magic make him vulnerable? It would need to be eliminated. He thought it was already, that their cut ties meant no more of this unprovoked nonsense. And yet, somewhere out there, he was _assured_ that Ginevra continued to exist even if she had vanished without a trace. There'd never been any unraveling of the mystery, oh no; she vanished at his weakest and continued to live on, _his possession,_ without him.

The time had long since past where Tom cared, though.

All he cared about was getting rid of this feeling, and her, once and for all.

"My dear Ginevra, what _am_ _I_ going to do with you?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_Angry people are not always wise._

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A/N: Thank you to NesiyLemon so much for giving your full consent and support to this sequel of my biggest beloved ship, I highly recommend you go and read all of her stories if you have not already!

Well, here it is, Chapter Two - I truly hope you enjoy this one - and please note I will be updating this story twice a week on Wednesdays and Fridays at 9pm, EST (without fail). Also: thank you to Grie for the lovely review!

* * *

It began as a whisper in the air. The day had been sickly beautiful and the sky a dome of plasma-blue. The clouds looked like airy anvils drifting under the gleaming disc of the sun.

But, a storm was coming. He could feel it in his bones.

The rain is incessant, Tom thinks. It comes on quick, and snaps and crackles like bracken pods in a bush-fire.

It was nearing midday when he, a man whose clothes were well-tailored and fitted without undue exposure stepped through the ancient doors of the London Library. Built back in 1841, it was made for the expressed purpose of supplying Muggles with information and resources. Although it _pained_ him to enter these doors and into their filthy halls, Tom knew there was a reason why the information he sought could only be found here.

The sky behind his head darkened, as far-off pillows of clouds were forming, blotting out the gold color of the sun. A wind rose up, feathering the back of his charcoal overcoat as the door groaned shut behind him.

As Tom walked down towards the desk of the reference clerk, he reached up a hand to slide through the front of his chestnut bangs; an act that pushed several strands out of place. Hunter-green eyes observed his surroundings meticulously, compulsively counting each step it took to shift through the massive space and the sound of his footfalls in tandem. When his fingers fell from the tousle of his scalp, he reached to adjust the wind torn collar of his jacket. It felt odd to be back in street clothes, given his new inclination towards finer robes. But even he understood that one could not simply _saunter _up to a Muggle library in something so noticeable, nor could he imagine himself potentially ruining them in such a filthy place.

The librarian was a young Muggle woman with bobbed blond hair, engrossed in the text of an encyclopedia. Casually, Tom slid his forearm up against the smooth counter, leaning over and craning his head to glance at the refined pulp underneath her fingers.

"Excuse me."

A twitch of annoyance pulled her brow down as she gazed up, disturbed, as if she was not employed for this very reason.

"_Yes,_ how may I-" Dull, uninteresting browns locked into iridescent depths, paralyzed by the coy tug of lips; the way he arched over the counter, one foot locked behind the other with his lean. Her mouth fell open _just enough_ to make Tom well aware of his magnetism, his _magic. _

"I'm so sorry to bother you. I'm looking for a rather old book," Tom purred, tilting his chin. "Would you be able to help me?"

"C-Certainly," She coughed, and reached up to adjust her glasses. "Can I a-ask what it is you're looking for, Mr…?"

"You can just call me _Tom,_" He leaned in closer and glanced down at the book she'd been holding. It was _thrilling_ to have such a level of control without using a spell. He hadn't operated this way in quite some time. Women were quite easy. If she played nice and gave him what he sought, perhaps he wouldn't have to go and use magic on her.

He looked back meaningfully into her eyes. "Mm. You see, it is an odd request. It's called _Looking Backward: 2000-1887_ by Edward-Bellamy. But, I'm not just looking for any old copy. I need the Ticknor & Co., 1888 first-edition that I believe is housed in your rare fiction collection?"

"...Oh, I'm s-sorry, _Tom_, but that is not available for the public…"

"No?" _Tsk. _Tom clicked his tongue, disappointed. "What a pity." He raised his index finger into the air, twisted it once, and waved it subtly towards the surprised looking blonde. _Imperio. _Wandless magic has become quite a hobby of his lately, and a rather handy way of catching people off guard. Amused, he watched her quizzical expression fade - replaced by a wide smile of complacency. She sighed happily, and rose from her chair with a hand outstretched towards the spiral staircases.

"Very well, Tom. If you'd like to follow me downstairs, I would be happy to collect that book for you."

Nott had professed a firm-held belief to him, not long after his _collapse_ in front of his friends. This Muggle book was rumoured to hold secrets about Time Travel that even the Ministry was not privy to. He thought that perhaps, if Lord Voldemort could cipher the rumoured messages of the supposed "Squib" author - an answer might reveal itself - one that could further his plans. Over the years, Tom had only made his suspicions known of her origins to both Notts and Abraxas; as they had inquired over Ginevra several times since her disappearance. They had known her, after all. He did not ever go into large detail about their connection, or how she seemed to know his Horcrux; only that some type of magic seemed to bind them with physical responses to things like touch.

He remembered Abraxas's twisted expression at that last bit, and Tom stifled a smirk.

It had hardly been two days since that incident, but he simply could not focus. He had to be _rid _of Ginevra. He cared not what caused the nostalgic sensation, only with his gigantic failure as a wizard. He had predicted that Ginevra could be an outlier, a weakness in his future; but not because he harboured any sort of feelings towards her. No, it was quite the opposite. She would always belong to _him, _that was clear, and so it was by his hand that he would assure she could no longer interfere. He hoped to, very shortly, guide his followers down a path from which there would be no return. Lord Voldemort could not very well go collapsing all over the place whenever Ginevra felt like doing something _stupid _in her time- which he was certain she was - so it had to end.

Much like how he'd found her at the Leaky Cauldron that time using his sense alone, he could no longer feel her living in this time. Which meant only one thing.

A small part of him was not pleased about this decision to find Ginevra and effectively terminate her being. A very, _very small part._

"Thank you." With that Tom smiled, and followed behind the clerk. "You've been a great help."

* * *

It's pouring when he leaves the library, the copy of the Muggle book tucked underneath his coat. He stands underneath the canopy - shrouded and protected against the hydroponic element by brick and mortar - gazing out into the storm he knew had followed him.

The autumn sky is dark and vengeful.

Steaming shrouds of cloud coil and writhe against inking darkness. The winds pick up and whip with frenzy. It is a shrieking, keening omen of the carnage to follow, and he smiles at the sound. The clouds race across the sky, thrumming with the charged energy they are desperate to release. Sopping drops of moisture collapse upon the earth in sheets, wild and indiscriminate.

He shifts the book underneath his arm, holding it tight against the inside of his coat. Rain does not bother him. It is just as walkable as broad strokes of sunlight. He does not feel like apparating tonight. With this thought, he steps out into the storm, and wicked waves of dripping moisture immediately rock against his frame. The warm lights of the library behind him fade into obscurity as he shifts down the steps and towards the main road.

_Oh, Tom._

_I really do not need your pity, Ginevra. And you did not bother me._

_Tom… n-_

_My silly little Ginny. Just don't._

Each footfall against sloshing rain elicits a new, recycled memory of a time spent in her company. Once, he would have considered them _peaceful_. Cherished, perhaps. Now they were nothing but a hindrance. Venomous irises hide underneath the shadow of his hair, curling and dripping with rain as he grinds against the night with shadowed contempt - compelled by the storm he'd brought in on his heels to press forward - to eliminate every trace of her. Flickering lights littered the suburban street, and he continued on; passing by fogged windows hiding laughter and life and love, through empty streets as rain hissed off rooftops, each step feeding the throbbing hatred that swelled like rotten Inferi.

Storm water was his symphony. The rain gave him what she took away.

There was work to be done.

* * *

"Is he still in his chambers?"

"That's right."

"Have you brought him something to eat?"

"Untouched at his door," Abraxas sighed, and sipped at his Brandywine.

He and Notts sat opposite one another. It had been almost a full year since Tom had left Borgin and Burkes to live at Malfoy Manor. Abraxas had always assumed this decision was based on the departure of Ginevra. He continued in their employ for a time before he left, but he was never the same. Neither he nor Notts had any clue that half of this change had been a result of two _Horcruxes, _as Tom kept that secret to himself. So, without much to go on, the heir to the Malfoy name had to operate under the assumption that at the time, Tom had been _mildly _heartbroken. Still, her disappearance only seemed to fuel a desire in Tom to start something. Although they were still unclear of a true goal, they resonated with his ideas on pure-blood ideology, and held their small gatherings with the rest of the original Knights of Walpurgis. Already they'd begun talks of locating powerful creatures such as giants and Dementors in their natural environments, but to what end was still only for Tom to know. They had only vaguely played with the name _Death Eaters, _but there was such a power behind it, and all of them were fools to think that Tom was not an incredibly skilled wizard who may one day lead them all to glory.

"What do you reckon, Brax?" Notts mumbled, staring into the fireplace beside them as it flickered. "Do you think this all really has something to do with Ginevra… being from another time? I only made that suggestion to him based on his own assumptions. I think it's a little…"

"_Mad_, do you?" Abraxas rolled his eyes. "Watch your tongue, my dear friend. You know he can hear everything."

Notts shook his head.

"I don't think _he's _mad. I think it's crazy to think that Ginevra would've ever done something to hurt Tom to begin with. I know she disappeared. But to be inflicting pain on him on purpose?" He stroked his stubble, perplexed. "She only ever struck me as a strong, kind woman."

"Ginny always gravitated to Tom, no matter what. It could be as simple as a connection that neither you nor I could possibly understand. Or, it is as Tom says: she is from another time, and she will find a way to disrupt our future plans. I do not doubt that he felt something physical when he collapsed, and I trust his judgment to know the sensation. She knew him to be Lord Voldemort, even if that knowledge was only shared between us in the Knights, which could mean that he will rise to power under that name some time in the future."

Abraxas took another long, delicate sip.

"Although I would prefer to believe that Ginny would never do something like that, as I do agree with you. She was a powerful witch and a kind person."

"...Didn't she break your nose at your party three years ago?"

Stunned, Abraxas shook his head. "How on _Earth_ did you hear such a - "

"Tom told me." Notts snickered. "Whatever you tried to do, I'm sure you deserved it."

Abraxas opened his mouth to argue, but was silenced by the appearance of a figure in the archway across the room. Clad in a deep purple robe and black slippers, Tom held the Muggle book loosely at his side along with two yellow scrolls. Notts looked over his shoulder and quickly rose to his feet along with Abraxas, while Tom made his way swiftly into the room. His hair was a chaotic mess of twisting locks, a stark contrast to his usual well-kept appearance.

"You're awake -"

"You were correct, Notts, in that this book does hold a cipher." Tom started abruptly. "However, it predicts the creation of advanced time-turning machines in the year two-thousand and beyond, not anything that can be replicated with the technology we have on hand today. I've also learned that travelling to the future is a different beast altogether. It _does_ explain what type of device she may have used. I have a feeling that _watch_ had something to do with all of this." Deep, black bags hung under his eyes as he placed his materials on a nearby side-table. He made his way swiftly towards the golden globe, where the flasks of whiskey were kept, and both his _friends_ relaxed back into their chairs. Clearly he had not slept.

"It took me three days to crack that code, only for the information to be useless in my grasp." Tom mumbled, as he thumbed at the cork of a bottle of Firewhiskey. "How disappointing."

"I'm sorry, My Lord." Nott's voice threatened to break, not _daring _to call him Tom in his presence without permission. "I did not know it would be a fruitless endeavor."

"No matter. Of course you did not know. But it did give me an idea." For a short time, the only sound was the quiet slosh of liquor inside his glass. When he'd finished pouring his drink, he turned back to them, the glass gently tipping back and forth between his slender figures. "Abraxas. Would you happen to have enough favor at the Ministry to obtain one of those experimental Time Turners without trace-ability?"

Abraxas straightened in his seat. "I could call in several favors, My Lord. It is not that hard of an item to obtain, given that you know the correct people." He paused. "Forgive my curiosity on this matter, but do you intend to use it somehow to find Ginevra?"

Tom raised a brow, and one eye twitched.

"_Clearly_, if I have asked you for it, that implies I intend to use it. Think with your head, not your mouth, Abraxas." Tom left no room for rebuttal as he took a sip of his drink and his friend shrank in his chair. "If my theory proves correct, I may be able to manipulate the device. It would do me no good to travel back in time now, as I'm certain she would ascertain why I had done so. No, I need to go there."

"Manipulate it?" Notts said in a small voice. "How so, My Lord?"

"Those scrolls there are the blueprints to the device. I obtained them without difficulty last night from a rather… willing wizard outside the Ministry." Tom pushed off the globe and nearly floated back over to the table, his long fingers tracing the edge. "As it stands, each turn of the hourglass turns the user back one hour in time. There is no way to travel forward. However, I do believe there may be a way to _change_ the internal workings, so those turns may be completed in the opposite direction." He spoke quickly as he set his glass down and pulled apart the scroll, dark eyes travelling the inked lines of the drawing. "Once I can obtain one, it will take some time before my hypothesis could be considered complete. I will also require some assistance in the development of mechanisms."

"Of course, My Lord." Notts immediately stood to his feet, and circled around to Tom's side. "As it happens, I do have a good understanding of mechanical devices. We may be able to build some replicas, once we get our hands on the actual prototype, and test them before you intend to - "

"What are you going to do when you find her, Tom?"

Tom's dark eyes burned red, and he glared over the top of the scroll at Abraxas. Nott's jaw nearly fell to the floor.

"_What did you just call me?_"

Unlike before, the Malfoy heir was not backing down. He merely took a sip of his drink and stared absentmindedly out the window, ignoring Tom's pointed glare. A quiet rage bubbled in the bottom of his stomach, one that even Tom Riddle could not quell by being intimidating. They were old friends, and he thought he understood him on a deeper level. So, this was the _first time_ that Abraxas had started to understand - perhaps - why Ginevra disappeared to begin with. However headstrong as she'd been, Abraxas would not have wished death upon her, no matter what. Even if she was going to "disrupt" their plans, or if she was merely an annoyance to Tom, that didn't mean…

"You're going to kill her, aren't you?"

A palpable silence hung between the three men. Tom's fingers threatened to crumble the corners of the scroll with how hard they clenched the paper. It was none of his business what he planned to do. He ground his teeth, and gently rolled the scroll back up into a single roll. Casually, he held it out to his side for Notts and took a step closer to Abraxas who continued to avoid his eyes.

"Yes, _Abraxas. _I am going to kill Ginevra." Tom's head tipped to the side, an angry inquiry hot on his lips. "Does that make you _sad?_"

Abraxas's answer was curt.

"Sad you have lost some of your humanity, perhaps - "

"_Silence!" _Tom bellowed, and as if his words had done the deed, Abraxas's lips seemed to sew themselves shut. A low rumble outside signaled the impending wave of a storm, and throbs of dark magic charged the room. The firelight flared behind Tom's back, while Notts stumbled backward one or two steps. His eyes were alive with wicked rage, and any semblance of control was slipping from his fingers. His _friend's _eyes were wide with disbelief, his figure sinking deeper and deeper into his chair in his own self-pity.

"You will not _speak _of me in such a derogatory tone **ever again**. Do you understand me, Abraxas?" Leering, Tom took another long step forward, until he was towering over him. He clicked his tongue. "How easily you forget your place. You have sympathy for Ginevra, after she denied your lust and instead came to _me? _After she made love to _me, _not you? Do you forget that she is _mine, _and therefore; it is my _right _to decide her fate?"

Abraxas's lips loosened, and he shook his head fervently.

"Of course not, My Lord. Forgive me. _Forgive me_." He scrambled to speak now that he was allowed, and he bowed his head in resignation. His voice was a small squeak, quiet and unassuming. "I was out of line. I apologize."

"I'm glad you've come to your senses, old friend." Tom mumbled, his expression still laced in anger, as he turned his back on Abraxas. "You would do good to question your own audacity in the future. Ginevra's fate is mine to decide, and mine alone."

With that, Tom swiftly left the room - and the two of them - to wallow in the fear that came when Lord Voldemort was truly _mad._

* * *

Ginny started out the dining room window of The Burrow, lost in the way the peony's danced below the sil. The small enchantment she'd placed on the garden had all the flowers swaying to an imagined song. Humming quietly under her breath, the youngest Weasley traced small circles with her finger on the tablecloth while her arm was propped up on it's elbow to support her chin. To the right of her arm sat the small lavender book, unopened since her jarring experience in Borgin & Burkes. It had been almost three weeks since that day; when she could have _sworn_ the connection between her and Tom still existed, and she felt it when she'd touched his words. It was _insane_ to think that the link between then and now could still survive, but stranger things have happened. Besides, hadn't she always known a connection may still exist? The only reason she did not question her scar was because Harry's didn't hurt. Was that because he never came into contact with the Tom from that time? Why would only her scar hurt still, while Harry's hadn't in all these years?

She wouldn't say she _wasn't_ worried, but she could always chalk it down to the shared part of their souls - the bond forged by his Diary - and leave it at that. It didn't do well for her to ruminate over Tom, and so she had tried her hardest not to think of him since she'd visited that night. It was starting to sour her mood, and she had to be chipper, given the… state of things.

"Ginny dear, have you seen George's cuff-links?" Her mother bustled into the kitchen like Percy's old owl, nearly crashing into the dining room table. Ginny's attention turned to her Mum, and the flowers slowed in their dance outside the window. "Sheesh! Has this table moved any? Never-mind. Oh, goodness. George is going to be late _again_ to his fitting!"

"There's over by the sink, Mum. You were polishing them earlier, remember?"

"Thank you, dear. Oh, Angelina is in for a _shock _when she figures out that George isn't able to keep anything in one place." Molly hurried over to collect the cuff-links, and Ginny couldn't help but smile.

"But Mum, you're the one who left them there."

"Oh, dear, I know that. I'm just so _busy! _What with having to help Fleur take care of little Victoire and organizing George's wedding… I can't seem to keep my own head on straight. And now the big day is tomorrow, and there is still so much to be done!" She sighed, and leaned up with a huff against the counter. One of the pots was washing itself without clean water, but her Mum didn't seem to notice. Outside, her Dad was busy organizing the walkway with Ron.

"You've been a great help though, dear. Really. I couldn't have kept on top of everything without you." Molly paused, and glanced over to Ginny. Her gaze was back out the window, almost glossed over. She pressed her lips into a firm line and nodded.

"It's been no trouble."

Molly's brow creased with worry. Her daughter had not been the same in some time. "Are you sure there's nobody you'd like to bring to the wedding tomorrow, dear? Even just an acquaintance or a friend? I've kept a plate and seat empty for you, just in case..."

"Don't worry about me so much, Mum. I'm _fine._" Ginny forced the strongest smile she could and turned back to face her. "I don't need a date. This is about George and Angelina, remember? I'm just happy to be able to celebrate with you all tomorrow. I mean…" She both knew that trail meant _but without Fred, _which was enough for Molly to cut off the conversation at the neck. Although they all spoke fondly of Fred, her Mum never liked him to come up unexpectedly. Ginny reckoned it was because it reminded her of his Apparating all over the house.

"Well! I've got these now, better get them up to him." Molly moved to walk past Ginny, but not before placing a chaste kiss on her forehead. "I'll leave you in charge of supper then, dear."

Ginny nodded, and as quickly as Molly had entered, she was gone. Her gaze retreated to the window for a third time, and her fingers danced along the table to touch the spine of her slender book. The flowers continued in their dance, stronger now that her full attention had returned.

Tomorrow she would be celebrating a new chapter of her brother's life.

Life, and_ time_, moved on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_I warned myself that I shouldn't play with fire.  
_

* * *

_2003: October 1. _

Even if they were never known for their wealth, the Weasley's sure knew how to put together a celebration.

A jovial chant of voices echoed through the massive yard of the Burrow. It was the early afternoon on the first day of October, but the fall chill had not yet descended. Maybe that was because of the warmth, and love, spread out all over the property on this special day. George and Angelina were to be wed before their friends, family, allies and classmates throughout the years. Both the bride and groom had not wanted for anything extravagant, or at least, as much as their wealth from the Joke Shop could've afforded. No; in the end, all they wanted was an enchanted celebration at their _home_ \- much like Bill and Fleur - near the place where Fred lay to rest. Ginny liked to think it was because they wished for him to be apart of the party, that his spirit would feel the joy and send his most sincere blessings from beyond. Although George had never mentioned that this was the exact reason, she was certain it had some part to play.

Bright blue and orange orbs floated around the various walkways leading to the master tent. It was large, with enough room inside for nearly thirty tables, a bar and a rather large dance-floor. George had even managed to snag Lorcan d'Eath as a late-night entertainer. A long line of white cloth stretched from the mouth of the Burrow through the party and out into the yard. It was this path that Ginny walked, an extra champagne glass in hand. Their vows had been exchanged (although George's could've used with less jokes), and Angelina was now her sister-in-law. Another addition to her rapidly growing family. It really was a beautiful day. Inside the bright yellow tent behind her, the party was only just starting to begin. They still had hours of celebration ahead of them. She meandered off the path and waded through the grass, over to the right-hand side of their property. Sheltered underneath a few mature oak trees was a small plot of land where Fred was laid to rest, gated by an iron fence that came up to her knees. Ginny gently stepped over the fence and to the side of his tombstone.

"Enjoying the party, Freddy?" Ginny whispered, and placed one glass of champagne on top of the stone. She looked down to the base: it was clear George had already been here, as there was a single white rose from Angelina's bouquet placed gingerly on top of the grass. Ginny drew in a deep breath and clasped her drink in both hands. She turned to look back over at the tent, trying not to let her eyes water.

She'd chosen to curl her long hair, not too tight, and it covered the chill that threatened to nip her bare shoulders. It also conveniently blocked off her scar. The dress she'd chosen was a deep V-back that came to just above her knees. It was covered in pale rose and white sequins - a color that _Fleur_ always said would never go with her complexion - but now seemed to match quite nicely. Ginny had blossomed into a beautiful woman, no matter how much she tried to hide it behind sweatshirts and comfortable jeans. It was almost embarrassing, but she had to remind herself that there was nothing _wrong _with dressing up once and awhile. Although she'd used Fred as a good reason to escape any opportunity of having to chat up some bloke, she was glad she'd come. Smiling, Ginny's fingers reached to graze the top of his stone.

"I miss you. You'd keep these grimy men off me, wouldn't you? Mum wants me hitched and Ron isn't much of a line of defense, right?."

A hollow wind rustled the branches of the trees above them, and Ginny glanced up at the sky. Suddenly, her scar felt cold.

"It's getting chilly. Best head back now. I'll see you soon, Fred."

In the bog beyond the Burrow, a sharp crack was muffled by the sudden gust of Fall.

* * *

_1949: September 31._

"I believe this is it, My Lord."

Both Notts and Tom looked as though they'd suffered at the hands of a Dementor's kiss. Their eyes bloodshot and faces sunken, neither had slept a wink over the past few days. Although it was Notts who looked worse for wear, even Tom was beginning to feel the effects of not having any rest. He'd brewed them various potions to enhance their stamina and eliminate feelings of fatigue, but even those could've only lasted for so long before the effects did nothing to their tolerance. After a while, it was fruitless to kick them back. It was then that Tom resorted to piping hot mugs of tea, full of herbs and flowers from Abraxas's stores. These little kicks of warm caffeine kept him plugging on through their experiments, and each taste was mingled with a certain nostalgia.

They had managed to obtain an experimental Time Turner from the Ministry (Abraxas delivered on his promise as though the devil was on his heel) and three replications were made with modifications for future travel. Of course, Tom could not risk trying their developments on his own person, or those of his faithful few. They were developed by Notts and himself, but that didn't mean he didn't have any doubts. Without much persuasion, he was able to convince Malfoy's father to loan him their small house-elf - Knobby - to be the one to test the device. Although, he kept the purposes of the loan under wraps, instead opting to tell him that it was a trial for a new invention the Ministry would _love_. This would've certainly garnered his interest, and perhaps made him think that Tom may be interested in a position there after all. It was with this leverage that he could easily bend the Malfoy family to his whims. They were so eager to please, if only it meant they got to look like the heroes at the end of the day.

"The design is simple enough, like we thought." Notts mumbled and rubbed at his swollen eyes. The pair of them were huddled over their most reliable prototype, the one they thought may have the best chance at succeeding. "Instead of turning back once for every hour, we can turn forward for one year. The Invisible Extension charm on the hourglass can hold a decent amount of Snap Sand. A wonderful idea, by the way." He leaned back heavily in his chair and tried to hold in a sneeze. "I'm confident that our modifications will allow you to travel to the future, My Lord. The only question is the maintenance of distance."

"Indeed," Tom mumbled and took a sip of his lavender tea. He looked far less threatening in this attitude; a mess of unruly hair, and clad in a tight beige turtleneck and casual green slacks. He moved over to the desk where Notts sat and stifled a yawn. Sometimes, Notts had to blink a couple of times when he saw him, not used to this unassuming version of the man who was - day by day - becoming more and more like a _Lord._ "We'll have the house-elf travel one year in the future, and see how long it takes in our time for him to return: then we'll have him time it on that end to compare the length. I wonder…" Tom trailed off, and craned his neck to get a better look at the shimmering golden locket. The sheen sparkled under the light of a nearby candle, and a swirl of thought consumed him. One he had not thought of before this, and he was baffled as to why. "Hm. I never thought of that." He spoke aloud and entirely to himself. In response to his own rumination, his face fell and his lips spread out into a thin line.

"My Lord?"

_'Even if this does work, how do I figure out where to find her?'_

"...It is nothing." Tom mumbled. The device had to work first. That was pivotal. Besides, he had a suspicion that he could figure it out without too much effort on this very night. "Shall we test it tonight?"

"Of course. I'll collect Knobby." Notts replied, moving to stand.

"Hold on, Notts." Tom raised one hand from his mug and held it out towards him. His friend staggered on his feet and, embarrassed, flopped back down into his chair. "Sleep first. You can afford three or four hours before the test phase. At this rate, your body will not keep up with you." He definitely _should _be more tired than he was, but he supposed that was another benefit of having several Horcruxes.

"Ah, My Lord - truly, I can manage - "

"You've done quite well, Notts. I'm in your debt." Tom smiled. "Get a couple hours of rest. I've got something to investigate in the time being."

A wave of gratitude washed over Notts, and instead of moving, he kicked the chair back to recline. "Just… a few hours. Not a wink more."

* * *

In the quiet of his large chamber at Malfoy Manor, Tom slipped a hand underneath his bed for his suitcase. It was the very same one he'd arrived at Hogwarts with so many years ago, and the very same that travelled with him to both Borgin and Burkes and _here_. Now, it housed some of his most precious possessions. The case itself was invisible to those who sought it out, and even if it was found accidentally, the enchantments would automatically burn the hands any person who was not himself. On top of his bed, Tom pulled it out from underneath and drudged it up onto his lap. He entered the dial-combination - 3247 _\- _and the clasps popped open. On top of several carefully bagged and packed _pieces of his soul_ sat his diary, crisp and black. Beside it sat an uninked quill. He flipped open the front cover and took the quill in hand. There was no need for ink, not with his spells.

_I need you to tell me something._ Tom's cursive was flawless.

The words were absorbed into the pulp. An answer came almost immediately. The rapport is quick, just as he expected it to be with a piece of himself at his fingertips.

_And what might that be?_

They dissolve.

_Tell me where to find Ginevra._

_What do you intend to do?_

_That's none of your business._

_I can tell you right now: she will not disturb you, so long as you leave her alone. She is quite content where she is, and if you don't intervene, she won't wreak havoc on your plans._

_You know her in the future, don't you?_

_You mean __**you**__ know her in the future. _Tom's teeth jarred against one another.

_Tell me where to find her, _he wrote again.

_Do you truly believe you will kill her?_

It was Abraxas all over again - but this time it was himself - which was vastly more infuriating than anything that the Malfoy heir could've done. He nearly broke his enchanted quill out of anger, and locks of chestnut spilled over his brow as he bent over.

_I will kill her._

_Why?_

_Because she's a loose end. Because if I allow her to continue living, she'll keep doing things that __**affect**__ us. I don't want any more of this. You have to understand. You're me. Why can't you see it - _He hadn't stopped writing, but a new line appeared.

_I don't think you intend to kill her. Do you miss her?_

Tom let out an angry wail of frustration and stabbed his quill into the page. At the gesture, he could feel a sharp sting in the spot between his own shoulders and winced.

_NO. I DO NOT. _

_Clearly._

It took awhile for him to regain the composure he required. Never once did he think that a part of his soul would have such a personality outside his own; or perhaps it was his own at a time. Maybe his anger was beginning to grow unchecked with the expanse of his power. There'd once been a time when he could've kept it cool with someone treating him in a similar way. It was a grounding thought, one that made him re-evaluate his approach. Tom rolled his neck back until he heard the soft _pop_ of gas in his vertebrae, and wrote much slower in response.

_What if I intend to bring her back?_

_Well, now, that would be a different story. _

The writing didn't stop. _You may attempt to kill her, as I'm sure you will: but if there is some piece of you that would see an alternative in such a situation, surely, I could disparage around what time I think she may be living in._

_You really don't want her to die? _

Tom wrote, quizzical. _Isn't that counter-productive to what we want to do?_

_Quite the opposite. I think she could either be your greatest asset, or your biggest mistake. Ginny has a lot more to offer than you have ever given her credit for, but she could also bring you to ruin. If you leave her alone, you will never know. That decision is entirely in your hands._

The page wiped itself blank, and Tom leaned back up against the headboard with the diary propped up in his knees. The decision was in his hands. Yes, he knew that already - but the way that was worded - what did it mean? After some time, bright serpentine eyes travelled back from the ceiling down to the empty pages, as four small numbers etched themselves in.

_2003._

* * *

That evening, the experiment had been for lack of a better term, a rousing success. Knobby the house-elf had returned from his venture with useful information and a body entirely in-tact. Both he and Notts had hardly spared a moment between them between when he'd left to the time when he returned. As it stood, he was able to remain for five hours _exactly_ in the future. Whether or not that limit would be applicable to such a leap from 1949 to 2003, Tom was not sure. He was still mulling over the meaning of his own Horcrux's words, wrapped up in the hidden exchange, to try and think that through too thoroughly. Even three hours was more than enough. Tom was sure that once he entered the same time as her, he'd be able to seek her out like he had when she'd disappeared the first time. The connection they shared and the intuition that came with it could only work when they were in the same reality.

"As it stands, my plan is this." In the early hours of October 1st, long before the masters of the house awoke, Tom had gathered his friends to Malfoy Manor. Avery, Lestrange, Rosier, Mulciber, Nott and Abraxas all stood before him in the grand hall. It was a pivotal moment, one that his _friends _needed to understand. Surely, they would be his back-up for his return should it fail. Although they were in their daily clothes, all young men seemed keen and interested to hear his plan, while Tom waded back and forth in front of the dining table. He'd taken a beat to have a shower and dress himself properly, now with chestnut hair well-groomed and kept up to his original standards. Instead of his favoured robes, Tom donned an easy-on-the-eyes approach: a dark navy undershirt, ebony blazer and slick charcoal slacks. At first glance, he may look to be a sharp member of the Ministry, or perhaps a prominent politician.

"I will use the Time Turner to travel to 2003. To you all, it will seem like I have only been gone a moment. However, I will have been there for five hours - if our experiment has not failed utterly - and I will either accomplish my mission or not. Either way, I will return before the sand has run out. Should I _not_ return," Tom gestured to Notts. "Notts has the secondary device. But do _not _try to use this right away. I have alternative options while I am in the future. There exists several devices that can travel seamlessly, and I only need to locate one of these to return." Tom took a breath and glanced out the window. A heavy breeze rolled in from the North, and his voice lowered a beat.

"If I am to return as planned, I expect you would all behave as I believe you would, no matter the circumstance of my arrival." It was only Abraxas who found this comment odd, and he blinked once or twice. He thought Tom had made it very clear that Ginny's death was imminent, but that sort of sounded…

_The circumstance of his arrival?_

Gently, Tom thumbed the top of the Time Turner. _Fifty-four turns. _

"Remember, My Lord, it is just as the blueprints said. You must envision a place you wish to travel to and have a _strong will _to get there. Just like travelling by the Floo Network. However, once you do, the rest is up to you. Please remember to keep your timer on at all times. Five hours." Nott's nodded, firm, and Tom glanced over at him with an appreciative smirk.

"Thank you, Notts. This gesture and your assistance with this matter will not be forgotten for quite some time."

"My Lord," Notts bowed deeply, and the rest of his _friends_ followed in kind.

"I shall see you all rather soon, I think."

_Tom._

He could hear her voice, as clear and crisp as the first day she'd literally tumbled into his life, while his fingers began their carefully counted turns of the locket. Ginevra.

_Envision a place you wish to travel to. A strong will. _With each twist, Tom pictured the face of Borgin and Burkes; the inlet poster window and dusty alley, the glimmer of trinkets from inside the display, and the spines of old books as they dulled from the glare of the sun. Surely, it had to exist in the future. It must. Tom's eyes were shut in deep concentration, as he meticulously counted each turn.

Not three minutes later and with the final turn in place, Lord Voldemort - Tom Riddle - disappeared from 1949.

Truly, it felt like blinking. One moment he was looking over to his _friends, _and the next, he was standing shakily on a familiar cobblestone street. The only difference was how he felt the wind rocked from his lungs; in response Tom reached a hand up to his chest and clutched at the fabric of his shirt, desperate for breath. There was a slight nausea, but that was easily overcome by his will. Bright, cerulean eyes scanned the street as he stood up tall. Several witches and wizards were mulling about, but there was something _darker_ about the familiar Knockturn Alley. When he turned around to look at the space behind him, he was quite relieved to see Borgin & Burkes still standing. It was dilapidated and not nearly as showy as he would've once left it, but it was still there. For some reason, Tom found himself smirking. Even this far into the future, a place that he'd come to cherish still stood. He hoped that they'd found some success, and was sure that they did, but there was no time for that. Besides, he could not risk meddling too much. If they were still alive, they'd remember his face.

Tom turned his head, and all at once, realized just how different things were. Even in a place like Knockturn Alley, people were dressed quite uniquely from what he'd remembered - the posters that adorned the brick walls painted far more vivid photographs - and the _hustle_ of people seemed quicker at large. More on edge. Still, this was neither the time nor place to ruminate on the differences between the past and present. He had a mission, and the steadily ticking clock around his neck was a constant reminder of that. Well aware that he was in the way of the walk, Tom took a step back and leaned up against the window of Borgin & Burkes.

He closed his eyes and focused.

_Ginevra._

Like a beacon that called ships ashore, a quiet flame lit in his chest. _There she is, _he thought. A wicked and malicious grin threatened to spill over his face, but he kept himself composed. He must focus on the _feeling - her presence - _because it was here, she was here, and he need only hold onto that for a moment longer before it was something he could latch to. It was a cold feeling, one born of anger and resentment. The feeling grew, some part inside of him continued to burn, and he didn't know _where_ he was going but he had it; she was locked in, and he held that feeling close to the faint beat of his muscled heart.

_I found you. _

With four hours and fifty-two minutes to go, Tom apparated.

* * *

Ginny returned to the party as it was beginning to peak. Most guests had polished off their dinners and began flocking to the bar. As she peeled back the mouth of the tent and stepped through, she couldn't help but smile at the warmth which greeted her. Many witches and wizards were clustered at various tables, none too keen to keep their numbered seats without socialization even despite dessert not being served. To her left, she could spot her Mum and Dad chatting beside Teddy Lupin, Kingsley Shacklebolt and her ex-boyfriend Dean Thomas. The bride and groom lead the troupe headed for the bar, and her brother seemed determined to enchant their celebratory bottle of champagne to be bottomless in front of a gawking crowd. Wizard rock blared in the background, and Ginny would've found her way swept up to the tent walls were it not for a familiar pair of hands clasping her own right before her retreat.

"There you are! We've been wondering where you went off to," Hermione beamed before her. She nearly twirled her around in place with the music, and Ginny had to stifle a giggle. If there was anybody in this world that could find a way to lift her spirits without prying into her life, it was her.

"What were you up to?"

"Just visiting Fred," Ginny smiled. "What's Ron up to?"

"Oh, _it's ridiculous. _He's convinced George to let him try his hand at the guitar. I _told _him I wouldn't bewitch it on his behalf, so it'll be funny to see where he lands." Hermione let go of her hands and turned back to the stage with a half-sigh, while the two of them watched Ron struggle to even figure out the strap and how it was supposed to sling over his shoulders. "Suppose you haven't seen Harry and Romilda anywhere?"

"No, I haven't." Ginny said, trying not to betray the twinge in her heart. "I know Harry wouldn't miss this for the world though. Perhaps they're running a touch late. I know in his Owl he said he wouldn't be able to make the ceremony, but he would be here for the party..."

"Absolutely. He wouldn't miss it if he had no choice to begin with." Hermione said with a side-glance at Ginny.

"...And you're sure you're okay with all this, then?" There she was: the smartest girl Ginny had ever known, being quite gentle in her approach to her feelings. Even if it was a _bit_ of prying, Ginny didn't mind it when it was like this. She shook her head, quite firmly, and locked her arms across her chest under her bosom.

"Of course I am, Hermione. I told you before. There's nothing left for Harry and I."

"And you're certain?"

Through the noise of the music and Ron trying to clumsily strum an electric guitar on top of all of it, Molly called out to her from afar.

"Ginny, dear - "

"I'm positive," Ginny said quietly, giving Hermione a nod. "Like I told him before, we've got on just fine. I'm happy he's been able to find something better than what we had on the best of days." _Something better than me, _she thought. Hermione looked perplexed, but then resigned, as she sighed softly and took Ginny's hands once more with a gentle stroke of kindness. She opened her mouth as though she was about to offer her some more reassurances that would make her feel very much at ease, but something over Ginny's shoulder caught her eye and she stopped.

"_Dear, _I've been calling you!"

Ginny glanced over her shoulder, following Hemione's line of sight. Her Mum was making her way through the crowd, an elated look on her face. Out of breath, she appeared before them, and animatedly stepped to the side.

"Your _date _is here, dear! You didn't tell me you'd invited someone, _oh, _I could not be more thrilled - and such a gentleman to boot - "

Confused, Ginny tipped her head to the side. A figure emerged behind her Mum, as dashingly handsome and ten thousand times more dangerous than she'd ever known him to be. Dark shadows seemed to explode behind him like wings, oh _god, _oh no, oh -

Did _life_ and _time _truly move on?

Could one possibly be cursed to both?

Absolute fear shook her to her core. Her scar burned third-degree welts into her skin, and she was robbed of breath at the realization that _life _and _time _were not finite; they existed forever, they would forever curse her in the form of slick chestnut hair, a smug smile and bright azure eyes that could absolutely kill, yes, they could. They would forever curse her in his hexes, in the way he grappled to the bed and tortured her, and them somehow - _somehow, god please help her _\- he had found his way to the future, to her, to this place.

_How?_

Ginny swallowed down _hard, _and her face drained of all color.

"There you are, Ginevra." Tom smiled. "I've been looking for you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_Have you ever danced with the devil?_

* * *

**A/N:** A touch shorter, but expect another update on Friday instead of Saturday! Thank you all for the reviews and favorites, it means the world to me. x

* * *

The mind of a manipulator is a simple place.

They see, they plot, they conquer.

However, Tom was far from a simpleminded fool.

He saw weaknesses and vulnerability. To see was to take an analytical eye to their behavior and functionality as individuals, to all pieces moving in a chain of events, to garner trust despite their better judgement. To plot was to, without hesitation, devise a tailored plan of execution for their victims. _His_ victims. And finally, to conquer was to play them against one another and watch safely from the background - eyes alight with rosemary stardust - the glittering reflections of those pieces moving in tandem. A simple game of Wizard's Chess.

It truly was a sight to behold, and underneath the autumn sky, he no longer wondered why people once saw faces in the moon. Anything could happen.

He had done nothing - and yet _everything_ \- all at once. A dizzying display of, what did Dumbledore once call it?

"Ah, potential." Tom breathed as he stared across the Burrow's grounds, his shoes caked in half an inch of mud. The crescendo, the climax of all his efforts over these past few weeks, had finally come to pass. It was an odd sensation, being able to Apparate to a place one had never been. But _intuition _and their connection brought him here, to some futuristic countryside at the height of what looked to be a monstrous party. Serpentine eyes slid shut, and he reached into his pocket to secure his wand without a whisper of a plan in mind. It didn't matter. He did not miss this weather at home – the perpetual darkness of gloomier months, the way storms moved relentlessly. 1949 was warm and inviting, despite the bloodshed. It was good weather for a reptile.

The air of this time was thick, on par with the consistency of condensed molasses. Of happiness.

Ginevra was here, and she was _close.  
_  
Each step he took felt like it stretched out the space between his landing and destination even farther. Dewed grass itched inside the space between his pants and ankles. The sounds of boisterous laughter and conversation grew louder, and Tom's bright eyes were darkened in the shadows cast over the field. Joyful music blared much to his distaste. He wondered vaguely _what_ this place was. A home? The base of it looked sturdy. The tent was surely the source of the party, but the towering structure beyond it was littered with small lights of their own. Each step brings him a different thought, a separate conclusion, as to how he is supposed to approach this situation. He should've thought it through better before this… but how was he supposed to predict the unpredictable? Nothing but venomous desire had carried him this far; and yet he does not feel it quite within his parameters to break out into mass murder on what was an unseeming party. He was not quite yet at that stage. Besides, this must've been a place Ginevra had some sort of attachment to. Her aura was everywhere; even as he passed the towering pines that housed a small graveyard, traces of her were littered all over the place.

A home then. _How unusual._

When he breached the top of the hilly knoll, Tom came to a shortstop. The white path that lead into the tent touched the tops of his shoes. From this distance, he can see the figures of witches and wizards moving about. Silently, he tips his head to the side. Curiosity nips at his heels. Judging from the decor, it had to be a wedding, what with the bright whites and drunken stupor that befell the crowd in such early hours of the evening. The orbs that drifted and floated about the path carried waves of shadow across his figure, but also illuminated his handsome profile in bursts. He wasn't dressed improperly by any means. He hadn't thought that travelling to the future would have - by any sane person's standards - warranted the use of old-world robes.

"All right, sharp enough for a wedding." Tom mumbled, and glanced down at his slacks. Luckily his landing in the bog had been graceful enough, so much so that the dirt only licked up onto his heels. It was still somewhat unsightly, and he quickly drew his wand from his pocket and waved it away.

"Excuse me," A voice sounded beside him, and Tom realized exactly how _unprepared _he was. Didn't he always go into everything with a plan? Why hadn't he? Why did this urge to silence Ginevra whisk away all reason? He'd planned every step up until this point, but as far as what he was to do next…

With a split-second to react, Tom donned a familiar but similarly unused smile. It stretched the muscles in his cheeks. Perhaps work at Borgin and Burkes had its uses.

"Yes?" Tom asks innocently but quiet, turning to the source of the voice. It is a girl; she has shockingly bright waves of blond hair that, despite being tied up, seem to fray out in every direction at the ends behind her. She's pale, even in comparison to him in his current state, and her doe-like eyes glisten emptily in the light of the orange orbs which bounce around. The bright golden dress, with the emblem of a Snitch etched into the embroidery, catches his eye. A small twiddled Radish hangs from a silver chain around her neck.

"Sir, you look quite out of place."

"Is that so?" Tom asks, glancing back towards the tent. Improvisation has always been one of his strong suits. Besides, he has no idea what he is dealing with - nor who he is talking to at present. "I'm just wondering… if I should go in."

"Are you a guest?"

To his own surprise, Tom answers honestly.

"No." He pauses, and looks back to the girl who is becoming more and more comparable to a ghost with the vapid way in which she observes him. He twitches his lip appropriately, and shakes his head.

"I just wanted to see her."

"Who is her, sir?" She twirls the Radish in between her index and pinkie finger.

_It's like talking to a house-elf,_ Tom laments. But he will not blow a chance for an opening, or information, so he plays deeper into the back-and-forth. He turns to face her and behind him, a chorus of happy voices join in unison to some band he does not recognize. He offers her a sad, near-half smile, and slips his hands into his pockets. A thumb grazes the side of his own wand in a silent reassurance.

"Ginevra… I haven't seen her in awhile. She told me about tonight. I wondered if… I could make things up with her by coming." Tom shrugs softly, and shakes his head. "It probably wasn't my brightest decision."

"You mean Ginny?" She tips her head, curious. "You're here as her date?"

_It's like she's not even listening. _Baffled, Tom blinks.

A brilliant, unbelievable option falls straight into his lap. God, he could _scream out in ecstasy _right now. She knows Ginevra, and is daft enough to not heed a single one of his words or read into them by any normal means possible. However, he cannot allow his success to betray him. Tom nods with a solemn and far-off look, his lips pursing to the side. He can't be outright and say that he was supposed to be a date, of course, but…

"We dated for a while," Tom shrugs. "We made some plans a while back, and I miss her."

"I know what you mean," The young woman mumbles, and walks up beside Tom. He blinks, surprised. Uncomfortable. He doesn't know who she is, and yet she encroaches onto his space so easily and without concern. "Ginny has been out of sorts for a while. I have missed her as well." With a dull smile, she looked up to him and offered him a small hand.

"I'm Luna Lovegood. It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir…"

_'...Say my name.'_

_Ginny gasps, stars in her eyes, as he slides his tongue up her jugular._

_'Lord Voldemort.'_

"I'm Lord Voldemort," Tom mumbles, and takes her hand in his own. The world shatters underneath him, like a long shut door being thrust open in a desperate plight to be free of dust and mold and decay. It fits, and it is right, and it flows so naturally from his lips to a stranger that Tom wonders if he has gone mad. Luna shakes his hand with a small smile, the first expression of emotion he has seen on her face - and for a moment - he is quite hopeful that this name means _something, _even now.

"That's a funny joke, sir. Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself. Hermione once said that. You are very brave. For now I will call you, Sir Mystery."

"People fear the name Lord Voldemort?" Tom asks; incredulous, excited, euphoric.

"Not anymore," Luna says dreamily, and her gaze wanders back to the opening of the tent. "He's been gone for six years. Where have you been? How interesting. Shall I lead you inside? There is a chill coming in."

Tom reels for a moment, but grounds himself. There's no time to dwell on it. _Gone_ could've meant many things. It is not his place to try and rip apart the history of Lord Voldemort when he came here on a mission. Perhaps he could find the answers he sought to that question upon a secondary visit. Because, as he thought of all the ways he could extract the truth of his fate, his wristwatch ticked painfully quick and the time Notts had allotted him was running out. This time was limited. But there was a definitive proof that he could very well return, so his task must be completed now. Answers and action came later.

Ginevra.

One thing at a time, while the opportunity was before him.

As it was, Luna had lead Tom into the tent and straight into the path of _Molly Weasley_ \- who he soon learned - was the jumbled and seemingly well-put together presence of Ginevra's mother. Another piece fell into place, and the bright young man who'd once considered himself well a shoe-in for a teaching position at Hogwarts when he was eighteen was more than obliged to accept this turn of events. They were the Weasleys; or, as Abraxas had once described them, the _pure-blood traitors_ of the Wizarding World. They had seemingly managed to survive this far into the future, something Tom would not lack stock in. Besides, his respect had now increased ten-fold. Even after learning that the crowd was quite the mix of both magical and Muggle blood - and despite his distaste - he quickly came to the realization that Ginevra was a pure-blood witch and_ something about that_ excited him.

_You really don't want her to die?_

Why did the Horcrux have such an attachment to Ginevra? If it was an extension of himself, it could not be without reason. That being said, it seemed to have developed a consciousness of its own. Still, it managed to weave it's way into his thoughts, those that Tom had suppressed and discarded even in the present day. Was he ready to kill her? Had their time apart and the resentment that blossomed in his chest been enough? He laments on this as he is woven through the crowd, having introduced himself to her mother as nobody more than Ginevra's _date, _to his intended.

_"Intended."_

When he sees her, Tom finds himself… confounded. Well, perhaps not _exactly. _His face is drawn into a tight frown as he makes her out in the crowd, drawn to the deep-v in her dress that paints a solid frame of her back. There is not much that can sweep him off his feet, especially not these days, when he was firmly planted on the ground. At a time, all he even needed used to be a simple volume of _Defensive Spells And How To Use Them_ and a piping hot cup of herbal gray that coiled him into peace. And, perhaps, a girl with engine-red hair who would bend into his touch, his embrace, to return his hasty kisses.

The smell of smoke comes from the one with serpentine eyes.

"There you are, Ginevra." Tom smiled. "I've been looking for you."

A palpable silence falls between them. It drowns out all other noise in the boisterous tent. The color drains from her sun-kissed skin, and Tom finds himself mentally tracing the sharp lines of her shoulders with an unyielding need. A certain excitement stirs from her withdrawn reaction, a twitch in his toes. Yes, this is what he came here for. He was to make everything right again and wash away their wrongs, and she knows it; she cannot comprehend how or _why_ he is here, but surely she must know that he is here to finish their conversation _and her life, and _-

"Oh, _Tomas, _I was wondering when you'd make it."

Tom blinks, the slight curve of a smile washed from his face.

In all her blatantly apparent fear, she wears a better mask than even he could've ever summoned. She whisks up to his side, and touches her mother's arm with her back faced towards him. Emerald eyes scan the depth of the dress once more. "Thanks, Mum! I thought he might get lost. Well, you know, when you said about the extra plate and all… I thought about it a lot… and Tomas is a good friend that I met on a mission once." Ginny _literally beams_ and Tom's face tightens.

"Not at all dear, not at all." Molly nods, and turns to look at Hermione. "Well, let's go get Ron off that stage and leave these two to be, no? Doesn't that sound nice?" There's a certain hesitation in the woman she speaks to - she _eyes him for too long_ \- to the point where Tom starts to grow uncomfortable with the gravity of her pointed stare. But before it can proceed any further, the Weasley mother grapples onto her arm and yanked her away.

Ginny's back is still to him, but Tom remains still.

"Why?"

"Mm," Tom breathes in deep. She smells of firewood, of lavender and old pulped paper. Of dusty bookshelves and hair strewn in his pillows. Of a time he'd much rather leave in the past. It is enveloping. "_Why_ do you ask?"

"Please, don't hurt them. They don't know anything." Ginny whispers in a soft but not demeaning plea, and bright emeralds travel to the shake in her pale shoulders. Surely, it is not due to the _chill_ coming in. Tom's nostrils flare, and he casually slides his hands into his pockets.

"Ginevra, I owe you nothing, but I do offer you a promise." He rolls his neck back a bit, contemplative but coy. "I will not hurt anybody else here tonight."

"How can I trust you?" Her voice raises, but she still doesn't turn to look at him.

"Didn't you know me at a time? Quite intimately, in fact?" Tom asks, his tone sharp. "Would I ever turn back on my word?"

"No, you wouldn't." She mumbles. Something about her fight despite the defeat evident in her posture shows him that yes, this is the time and the place - and he has _won -_ the choice is only his now as to how to proceed. Softly, Tom clicks his tongue and glances up at the ceiling of the auspiciously large tent. The quiet victory hums and rattles in his chest. It proves that yes, it is _potential _that awaits him at all times, even with an interference like Ginevra Weasley.

"I've got a couple of things to go over with you, Ginevra, and we haven't much time." Nearly less than three hours left. Slowly, Tom circles over to her other side. Her chin dips so low into her collarbone that it should quite neatly disappear if it vanished any further. Smug, content and quite brazen, he raises the side of an index finger to it. Ever so gently, he raises her gaze into his own.

"I've got to thank you for leaving me as you did," Tom mumbles. "And I'd rather do that in private quite soon. Wouldn't you agree?"

When he manages to tilt her chin up, he look she returns to him is not one he expects. Instead of shame, of pity or of fear, Ginevra is lit aflame. There is a certain spark hidden in her irises, one that threatens to burn him with her gaze alone. A tepid anger, one that has brewed and stirred without him for three years. It is no matter, he can return those sentiments ten-fold. Still, as his cold skin continues the connection to her skin, something unknown grasps at his wrist. It would be easy. One whisper or thought of an Unforgivable Curse and she would be all but gone from this world. He wouldn't even need to pull out his wand. Then he could return to the past, gather his thoughts, and come back to ascertain the certainty of his fate.

But something keeps their gazes locked, and his finger glued.

A hesitation.

_That decision is entirely in your hands._

"_Tom,_" Ginevra whispers. His name. Quiet, and clear, and it does not sting. It does not make him wretch. "You don't have to do this."

He takes a step towards her. His finger falls from her chin, and moves to trace the newly formed goosebumps that blossom on the right-side of her neck.

"Perhaps one dance," Tom replies quietly. "I don't think we ever managed one."

"You've never been one for dancing, and neither have I."

"You'll never know if you don't try." Tom smirks.

"Are these my last rites?"

"...Something of that nature, yes."

"Then I don't want to dance." Ginny's words are hardly a hair above a whisper.

"Just once," Tom says, and his cold hand eventually finds her wrist. The distance between them shortens. He can feel the wind knocked out of Ginevra's lungs by the gesture. She is afraid, but he is not. It is a parting gift, a final farewell.

"I must insist."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five  
**  
_Always lost, no longer able to go back home._

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A/N: So sorry it has taken me so long to get an update out, folks! Some family and life stuff, you know how it is... I appreciate you bearing with me in the meantime. ;; Thank you all for such positive feedback and reviews! Aaaa! I wish I could reply to most of you but you're all ANON! Why you gotta do me like this? LOL. I do plan on this being a very long story, quite possibly between twenty to twenty-five chapters. Things might get a bit shorter for each chapter as I chug along here, but I promise it is all about quality over quantity. Again, thank you for sticking it out with me, and I hope you enjoy this one C:

PS. One of you said I'm the king of cliffhangers in a PM, and you're not wrong.

* * *

_I must insist.  
_  
An indescribable melancholy weighs on her shoulders. Ginny had always been the one to fight until the very end, ready and willing to give her entire soul to deflect evil. It was built deep into her code. So why did she feel so utterly defeated before him? She could cry out and have him surrounded by all remaining members of the Order in this very room - and hope to every higher power that nobody else was injured and that Tom didn't slaughter all of them - if only to save herself from his plans. But Ginny wasn't selfish; she knew that this Tom Riddle was her exclusive burden to bear. He was her biggest mistake. This suave, well-groomed young man who exudes charm and whispers venom in her ear. _I must insist. _There were many things she would've insisted on in this moment, but none can outweigh the gravity in his tone. She should be paralyzed by fear, but something akin to complacency and acceptance washes over her. _Yes,_ Ginny thinks. After all these years spent trying to forget, he had found her, intent to close the cover on their twisted fates. And _yes,_ she is ready to pay the consequences for her actions.

Tom extends a hand towards her.

Gingerly, she accepts it.

_Do you want to -_

_No. Just, no._

It had been at Hepziah's New Year's Eve party that she remembered Tom asking a similar question of her, although the circumstances had been far different and less fixated on her remaining mortality. Ginny could remember trying to stifle her laughter as he was continually whisked away onto the dance floor by older witches, all of whom had been enchanted by his appearance. None of them knew who he was back then, so she couldn't blame them. But she did, didn't she? And didn't she still share his bed - _did she not share in his embrace_ \- knowing full well who he was and what he had done? What he was going to do? A traitor to her family, her friends, this world. There were no excuses for any of it. It was a sobering thought, one that loosened the tendons in her small palm as Tom's fingers wrapped around it. Her hazel eyes fell to the floor, to the tiny rose bows tied at the fronts of her heels… and Ginny's heart broke with each curl of his fingers. She could feign ignorance for the rest of her days so long as he was not around and die with her mistakes, but she knew she had to atone for them. Yes, now that he was here and threatened to ruin everything that good _people _and _Harry_ had fought for - that her brother had _died_ for - she needed to bear it all.

In contrast to her brother's awful attempt at guitar, a somber violin begins, and Tom leads her out onto the floor.

Already counting down her final hours - or possible minutes - on this Earth, Ginny turns her attention to the Grim Reaper himself. He's grown. There's a paleness in his complexion, a coldness to his touch that was not there before. He is an older version of the Tom she once knew, but there is something sickly hidden behind the surface, and it is buried deep in his scales. Dark shadows hide under his eyes, and an unyielding domination pricks thorns at her temple. He has gained some power, she thinks. He feels different than before.

"Your hair," Ginny remarks dully without looking at him. "It's grown. There's unruly bits at the end."

"Annoying, isn't it?" Tom mumbles, and with one hand, moves to hold her hip. Ginny holds back a sharp albeit terrified inhale. He assumes a lead position as if he's a natural. Still, she can't find the will to look him in his eyes; to peer into the depths of his vine greens that will swallow her whole this night. "I've been meaning to trim it out."

"Must be hard to balance your time these days. A haircut might be out of the question."

Tom smirks. Ever the sense of humor, this one. Does he even need to think about why she might know what he's been up to?

"Indeed. I've been rather preoccupied to worry about such trivial things." He steps back, and leads her in to follow his movement. She tries, _heavens she tries_ to remain outside his gaze but there is a certain gravity to it that she cannot ignore. Plus, she has to maintain appearances. _Everything is fine. They all think I invited him here. People will expect me to act like I'm excited to be with him, that I want to - _

_Look at me._

Ginny tilts her chin up without intending to. She meets Tom's eyes as they side-step with the melody. A bead of sweat bubbles on the surface of her neck. He stares down at her with such an unmatched _intensity_ that she feels she may burst. A couple of witches and wizards join them on the floor in the casual sway of the music, linking hands and hearts, unknowingly placing themselves in harms way, unaware that…

"Did I scare you?"

The question seems to materialize out of thin air. Ginny blinks. It seems an odd thing to ask, given that he already knows the answer, especially if he's talking about tonight. _No, of course you didn't, I was perfectly happy to see you after three years and you tried to kill me. Not one bit._

"I'm not sure what you mean, Tom."

"Back then," He's quick to answer while he gracefully turns her around, and her bright red hair leaves licks of fire in its wake when she twirls. "When we fought. When I tried to… hurt you. You held me then, didn't you?" Tom's chin tips to the side, a quizzical expression latent on his brow. "Why did you do that?"

"Why?" Ginny laughs quietly. "You tried to kill me and you ask _why_ I held you?"

"Yes," Tom replies, and his own voice grows quiet. "I don't really understand. It has bothered me for some time."

_Tom? Bothered by such a thing? _Her own lip folds into a straight line. Ginny wonders whether he was just playing games, if he was toying with her in these embarrassing lines of dance. Still, she does not gather that from his expression. It seems forlorn, contemplative. Her lips purse from their taught line in thought, a rumination on his well-posed question. Why did she hold him back then, when he'd had all intentions in the world to kill her?

_I wish you would rip me apart by the seams._

She unlaces her right hand from his own and touches the top of the buttons to his dress shirt. They both stop in their dance and Tom blinks.

Translucent pentagrams of hazel stare up at him, and near breathless, he stands as still as the towering pines outside the tent. She traces a scorched finger across clothed skin, and the slower she journeyed the more mystical and spellbinding it became.

It rests against the quickening beat of his heart - she is chanting mantras and spells to his ancient green with her touch - and Tom wonders why in the world he has hesitated in ending things at all. This is _not good._

"Because," Ginny mumbles. He gazes down at the rose in her cheeks, the pale line of her neck. "Didn't you know me at a time?"

It takes him a beat, but his composure returns.

"Very clever, Ginevra. Using my own logic against me." Tom is not one for being bound by the whims of a witch; no, he pulls them back into the rhythm of the music despite the hesitation that clouds his reality. "I wonder where you learned that from."

"Only the best of liars, I suppose." Ginny smirked, laced in depravity, and falls back into step with him.

"So, Tom… are you going to tell me how this is supposed to end, or am I going to be left guessing?"

"Quick and painless." The song reaches its crescendo. The time draws closer, and the unanswered questions that sit at both of their feet beg to be addressed. Tom leans over her shoulder and into her ear. From the outside, it appears as a soft whisper: a tender exclamation of feelings intended only for a single person. "You'll come outside with me. That's all there is to it. I'll take care of the rest."

The fear she thought would shake her core is not there. Instead, a modest complacency takes hold. Ginny nods, and the song ends. The party all around them erupts in a quiet applause. Both Tom and Ginny stand for a beat longer, unwavering. He is the first to break their stance, to turn and offer some quiet claps before sliding his hands into his pockets.

"Well, I suppose we should be off."

"Ginny!" Her head snaps up at the sound of a familiar voice from across the tent. _No. No. No. _Panic sweeps over her in waves, and part of her wants to scream out for help, for someone to save her. The composure she had is all but gone when her eyes land upon Harry, arm-in-arm with Romilda Vane. He can't meet Tom. He simply _can't._ She will not have her world's collide like this, and she will not risk Harry's life because of her sins. That's the most important thing, isn't it? _Tom cannot meet Harry. _She doesn't know why, but this thought strikes her harder than all others. She will cause irrevocable damage, she is sure of it; or Harry will know, he'll know something, he always does. Ginny swallows down hard and turns away from Harry and Romilda, towards Tom, whose attention had also been caught by the unruly-haired male across the room.

"Ginevra, is that -"

She doesn't give him time to finish. Ginny extends up on the toes of her heels. Her arms snake up and around Tom's neck. _She wants to vomit, but this is the only way. _With lids squeezed shut and a heart that threatened to burst from her chest, she kisses Tom. It is hard and devoid of passion and meant to do something, _**anything,**__ to make Harry look away._ And it does exactly what she thought it ought to; Harry's extended arm falls quick to his side, and he turns instead to look at the side of the tent while Romilda tries to tug at his arm. From the corners of her nearly lidded eyes, she can make out this much - and she's satisfied - because she knows Harry and understands that he'll give her space. He won't come any closer.

What she doesn't suspect, however, is Tom's reply.

He returns her kiss in a way that she does not understand. A brief, startling connection of souls. That jarring ricochet of sensation. A hand snakes around her waist to pull her close. It's cold, she thinks. His lips are cold. He is cold. There is no warmth, save the air around them and the temperature of her own body. What she would've once considered as passion is given in a thin, misguided attempt at _something._ She doesn't get it. Why does he do such things? Why does he act in this way, if she is nothing but a problem to be rid of? He acted this way before, too. Tom always made it clear he was devoid of love. It was never a question. But his _actions_ predisposed his words en masse, and Ginny had to wonder… what was Tom's goal with all of this? A sense of satisfaction? An attempt to starve off the hunger?

They pull away, but Tom's eyes have not closed.

Hers, if only for a brief moment.

"We're leaving," Tom says huskily. A chilled hand encircles her wrist, and the tightness of it is a firm reminder that this is exactly what she thought it was; nothing. Unaware that her nerves were fraying at every end, Ginny simply agrees to follow his lead in silence. It's about that time. No more room for empty dances and false kisses. A destiny, a cleansing of her soul, was waiting for her in the darkness of the Burrow's yard.

* * *

Fittingly, Tom leads her to the empty space nestled near her brother's grave. They are nestled in between the thicket of tall pines, casted over by thick shadows that only further darken the encroach of night. Ginny fumbles through the grass in her heels, and eventually cast them aside, well aware that she will not be in any need of footwear soon.

At their full stop, and with Tom's back to her, she feels more at ease than she has all night.

_Finally, _she thinks. About time this all came to an end. Even with this thought, the breath that escapes her still comes out in a soft shudder. Maybe it's a chill in the air. Either way, her gaze turns from Tom, towards Fred's tombstone. The glass of champagne atop it glitters wonderfully in the small beams of moonlight. This, more than her own affront with mortality, makes her well up. _I'm sorry, Freddy. _

"Ginevra," Tom says low. His voice crawls on the ground like a snake. He turns to her, and his bright eyes pierce through the darkness. One step towards her, then another. Humble, and quiet, Ginny closed her eyes. She's ready for this. She always has been. It was time to pay some dues, after all. With Fred watching over her, and the empty promise that Tom would soon be gone from this place to never return, she could accept the end. If anything, she had to trust him on that. There would be no other reason for him to return besides her. He wouldn't have ever figured anything out about Harry, or his future, in such a short amount of time. Even if he did have the means to return somehow, Ginny was certain it would not be met with welcome. She hoped, and prayed, that once he was done with her - he would never again worry about future things - that he would go on to build an empire that would one day be crushed. Again, and again, and again.

A slender hand reaches out to take her wrist, and Ginny breathes in slow.

"Yes?"

"...I've finally decided how to end this. All of this." His voice rumbles in her ears. It's time. She's ready. Here, she's not afraid. Here, he cannot hurt her. Not really.

_I'm ready to die._

"You're coming with me."

Her eyes snap open, but before she can move; before she can even think of tearing her arm away or to _scream at the top of her lungs for help_, Tom uses his free hand to turn the dial on _something_ on his wrist, he turns to look at her one last time with those bright eyes, until it twists and it is _done. _

Why?

_Why?_

_I would've rather… _

The world - **her world** \- disappears in a swirl of black smoke, with her and Tom along with it.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter Six**_  
Welcome Home?

* * *

**A/N:** So, yes; it's been an entire year since I've updated this story! The world is an anxiety steamboat, and we're all the captains, so I'm sending you all my most positive vibes. I sincerely hope if there is anyone who still wanted me to continue this, that you'll be happy I've returned, even though it is a touch of a shorter chapter. I've got a renewed inspiration for this story, the ship that is the love of my life, but also to anyone who enjoys my writing! I thank you for returning, or arriving anew, and hope I can continue to delight you for the years to come.

* * *

As it so happened, Malfoy Manor sans Tom Marvolo Riddle could _actually be _a lively place. Granted, it took the five of them some time to come to that conclusion. All but Abraxas were stunned into silence after Tom had vanished, while the Malfoy heir simply turned his back on the spot and began a quick saunter out of the room. Certainly, they had less than an hour until he returned, if all went according to plan. Almost a full hour without Tom in the universe? Whatever was he to do with such a magnificent gift?

"B-Brax, where are you -"

"This calls for a celebration! We'll toast to the Dark Lord's success." His pale hand flourished in the air, gesturing for his comrades to follow. The morning was still early; and if those empty bottles of Brandywine on the house-elf's cart outside his parents room indicated anything, it was that they would not be up for quite some time still.

"You're too casual, Abraxas." Rosier hissed. "We've yet to know anything, and now you want to _celebrate_?"

Abraxas stops in the doorway. He glances over his shoulder at his friends, still rooted in place in the crescent moon that Tom left behind.

"Are you saying you **doubt** him, Rosier?"

Almost immediately, the stalk man fluttered his heavy lids in shock.

"Never! Don't - don't tell him I said that, Abraxas, you -"

"Fear not, my fear-loving friend." A wide smile washes over Abraxas's features, and as he spins to face them, he extends his arms out at either side. His platinum-white hair twirls along with him, and curtains over the side of his shoulder from the gesture. "I do not recount many knots with Tom; and if I were to do so, it would only be because he forced it out of me." Though the latter is quite true in certain situations, the former could be as false as his mother's two front teeth: Abraxas had a sworn fealty to Tom outside of this _group. _

He would always tell him _everything, _even if it disturbed his principles.

"Now, shall we all go enjoy a drink out on the terrace? A spot of breakfast, perhaps?"

It didn't take long for the rest of the group to loosen up, given his lackadaisical attitude and invitation to dine. They had all been hard at work in some context or another; this was a rare and well-received suggestion, one they were warming to. Warmer even still as Abraxas stepped out onto the eastern terrace, greeted by the warm embrace of the morning sun. Three elves were put to quick work on fetching their libations, and Abraxas was reminded of simpler times. Days where he and Tom and Nott had attended parties from morning's breath to the kiss of twilight, and the farthest thing from their minds was total _domination. _Mingling together in quiet chatter, like this, warmed him. It gave new life to the light he used to exude; for as forever brooding as a Malfoy could be, Abraxas had once bathed in light. _Believed_ in the good of others. There had been such a time for Tom, too. There _had to _have been.

It was hard to wash his friend from his mind, even with such a gift as his lack of presence at hand. Still, he found himself thinking less of him and more of the group in front of him, as the minutes ticked on. With their drinks and a soft toast, it became far easier to forget.

Perhaps he wanted to forget.

After all, Tom had gone to kill Ginevra.

"We really ought to get out more." Abraxas lamented. He leaned over the edge of the cast-iron railing, eyes drawn out to the massive splay of flowers that had just been planted. "All of us. Do you really think we're doing ourselves any favours by being cooped up inside this stuffy old place?"

"Heh. Brax, this is your _house_. And it's most excellent, may I add?" Rosier leans beside him.

"Now you're kissing his ass because you're afraid he's going to run to _Daddy._" Lestrange snickers from some distance away, huddled up beside Nott.

"Watch it, _Lestrange._"

"Now now, boys. Let's play nice. I'm definitely not going to, though it would be quite fun to -"

Just then, a blood-curdling scream pierces the calm silence. It ripples out through the open terrace doors, and descends upon their eardrums in assault. Immediately, Abraxas drops his drink over the railside and dashes towards the open doors. Had any of them even registered the entrance of another presence? Something about drinking in the wee hours of the morning could've inhibited that; or, it could've been the unusual embrace of quiet company. Either way, Abraxas has already torn past the other four and through the threshold, back into the mansion, because _that was a woman's scream. _And, one that was most definitely, not his mother's.

* * *

They land only a few meters away from where Tom had embarked with a cavernous crack. It echoes through the darkened hall, and it reminds him of how quickly things can change - from one thing to the next - silence to noise, and then -

"_**No!**_" Ginevra _screams_ at the top of her lungs, her waist already fallen from his grip as he'd ambled to get bearings back in his stance. Before he can even move, she's staggered away from him, her hand already on the wand she'd kept hidden away; tucked inside a leg-strap under her dress. Hah, and here he thought she was unarmed. How foolish of him. Serpentine eyes writhe and coil in ash as she opens her mouth, and takes another step back.

"_**You said you were going to kill me!"**_ Her voice rises again, and now both her hands are clamped over the end of her wand. Formidable tears well in the corners of her eyes, but they are not ones of sorrow; no, Tom can feel the anger that residuates off her in palpable waves. Her fiery essence is quite literally lit aflame.

"How simple of you, Ginevra." Coldly, he straightens out and stands still. There's no need to go for his wand. Now he was the one in a position of power. There was no twisting him around her finger in these halls; she could not, and would not, _kiss him _as she did in that tent ever again. There was no need for such an unprompted thing. Such a thing that shan't be brought up again. "Had I known you'd longed for death, I would have done it long ago."

Abraxas storms into the room, down at the end of the hall. Before Tom can even begin to acknowledge his arrival -

"_**REDUCTO!**_" Shit. Shit, shit. Why in the hells did she try and cast a spell with accursed tears in her eyes? She wastes the one chance she may have had to catch the absolute embodiment of evil off guard, and instead sends her spell directly into the ground at his feet. Though it does force him to move, it's not quite in the direction she can deal with. Hardly does she have time to stagger back before he's become a blur of black smoke, and then, his hand abruptly curls around her throat. It took him less than - what - half a millisecond to breach the gap of distance between them? Harry fought him for _seven years,_ what compelled her to think she could defeat him with such a weak spell - let alone one that was not an Unforgivable Curse?

"Foolish witch," Tom hisses in front of her, but all she can hear is the blood thrumming in her ears, and the rapid-fire beat of her pulse under his muscular fingers. "You _**dare **_raise your wand at me? After all I've done for you?"

"All you've… done…" The words barely squeak out. She drops her wand and uses both her hands to grab onto his wrist as he attempts to hold her in place by her neck. "...go fuck yourself, Tom." Instead of neatly punctuating this sentiment with another unreturned kiss, she sucks her tongue back in her mouth and manages the absolute will to _spit _in his face.

Maybe she did have a Deathwish.

Tom freezes. From the doorway at the end of the hall, Abraxas can feel the air being sucked out of the room. The firelight near the mouth of their study is snuffed out by a breeze that does not exist. A darkness unlike any he'd ever bore witness to residues off Tom in _abhorrent waves. _This is no ordinary anger. No, this is something far greater. Far more dangerous. Time was of the essence. And still, before Abraxas can summon the sheer force of will it would take to break past that demonic barrier of anger and intervene, a curt laugh fills the air.

"...Ah, Ginevra, Ginevra." Something about the cheer in his tone is revolting. With a dark smile, he releases his tight hold on her neck and moves his sleeve to wipe away her insult. She falls to the ground in a heap, yet as she fights for breath, she does not back down in meeting his gaze.

"I remarked on a sentiment earlier: allow me to rephrase it for you." He kneeled down in front of her. "Had I known you'd longed for death, I would be more than pleased to deny you of this wish moving forward. For, you see…" Cold, pale fingers rise from his side to brush the streaks of hot tears on her face. "...I hate you more than anything I've ever hated in this life. Oh, that is true. So, I would be delighted to steal you from your home and make you live the rest of your days in purgatory. You shall suffer; under me, with me, all of those secrets divulged until you're nothing more than a husk at my disposal."

Their gazes lock, and Tom's fingers move to weave into the side of her hair.

"You disappoint me…" He whispers, but it is empty. "Somnium."

This wasn't like her. She wasn't the kind of person to be stunned into silence, to be so enraged and broken that all she could manage was some trembling trepidation in her eyes. But whether it was the shock of the moment, or Tom himself, she was brought to nothing but a puddle on the floor. And definitely not in the melt-your-heart way, either. More like an acceptance of fate. She was not going to be permitted to die to atone for her sins. She would be in a mortal hell, here, in an age where Tom existed and she should not. It's with this absolute desperation that his whisper fails to register, and the sleeping spell that suddenly binds her is left unchallenged, casting her vision black; left only with the fleeting vision of Tom knelt before her, whispering hatred but still being so lost in those pools of emerald.

Abraxas rushes the room as soon as Ginevra collapses. Her loss of consciousness seems to lift the shroud of evil that had descended upon the room. In his haste to rush to Tom's side, he watches as his friend does not bother to try and hold her upright in her slumber. Instead, he rises to his feet and continues to wipe at his face.

"My Lord, but I - I thought -"

"Keep her downstairs. I will apply the proper charms so your parents are not alerted." Tom mumbles, an uncharacteristic trait. Abraxas blinks, the others still too afraid to approach as closely as he had. From this angle, he can see the odd mix of emotions on Tom's face - clouded under the blanket of the dark. Despite this, the Malfoy heir is left with more questions than answers as Tom turns his back on them and starts to walk away. "We shall discuss this further tonight. I need to sleep."

Stunned and alarmingly confused, Abraxas's head tilts at the nonchalance of Tom's demeanor and how fragile it seems.

Still, his eyes snap down to the firecracker redhead on the floor, and he is glad to be locking her up downstairs - if only for the fact that she is _alive._

_"What've you done, Tom...?" _


End file.
